Not Everyone Dies (Heisenberg's Return)
by SilverXF
Summary: HORRIBLY miss Breaking Bad! New to this (tech difficulties). Still Short Mode, please be kind. Walter White lives, the story continues... Immediately after Breaking Bad finale, Felina. Tagline: With Heisenberg alive, can Death be far behind?
1. Chapter 1

…Not Everyone Dies

"Walter White has more lives than a rabid cat." - Saul Goodman (Cinnabon 9 Assistant Manager)

"Pupil response." Over armored men looked down at the body belonging to the nation's manhunt of the moment, the number one threat to (DEA department, west) homeland security. Sweating, their breaths clouding their face shields, they crowded in anticipation to get a good look. Disappointed at the ragged, bone-thin, homeless man without a pistol (or even small switchblade, pathetic) on him, a few turned away to do More Important Things. Finally catching such an undangerous looking man really wasn't going to look good on the 10 o'clock news. At least the compound looked more promising. The odor of blood and intestines was in the air, and something was moving and clanking in the dark. A few looked up hopefully, perhaps catching the glint of a bomb or trailing wires of a booby trap, this man could make air blow up, according to the stories. The SWAT agent pulled the high intensity flashlight away, felt at White's neck again. "I still don't get a pulse, Captain."

Walter White's pale hands were well above his prone head, where another dutiful agent had kicked them. He certainly seemed no threat. How much of a monster had they made him over the past several months? Agents still had their guns pointed at the fragile school teacher,

(_…some a little shakily_, the Captain noted with a frown)

as if he was ready to pounce on them like a zombie jack in the box.

"Stand down," Captain Hollander growled to those still around him. "Look around, look sharp. I don't want another incident like the tortoise bomb happening in here." The grim faces of the other members agreed. There was so much in the lab that could be explosive.

"CPR, Captain?" one young recruit kneeling over White dared to ask.

Adrenaline rush was making his team slow and stupid, which is never impressive. On the other hand, a live Heisenberg would be.

"You'll be squishing blood through what looks like two big holes in his side if you did. Landis!" A man with an oversized med kit rushed up. "Pressure bandages, front and back." A great gout of blood and fluid gushed when he lifted the body slightly, yet he was able to quickly seal the holes in White. Others around the body were still hesitant to touch it.

Hollander glared at his men. "He's a tired, old man, and a trapped rat. I've seen it before. There's no terrorist bomb sewn in him, no one last stand. Start the CPR." Then under his breath, he sighed, "Let's see if the son of a bitch is as hard to kill as they say."

The men started the ministrations that would hopefully keep their prize alive. Though they were normally an excellent squad, hard trained and eagle eyed in tactics and strategy, somehow no one noticed the little, empty vial that slipped out of White's back pocket as they pumped him back into life.

…

Jesse Pinkman raced down the darkly engulfing highway that was both the road and his mind. He was definitely in a fugue state, besides New Mexico, and it was the land of his most "bad high" nightmare. He knew he was driving, his foot cramping from the pressure on the accelerator, hands white on the steering wheel, eyes too fixed ahead. _I'm going to get pulled over if I don't slow down_, some small, still rational part of his mind was trying to tell him. His foot hurt so bad, he did not know how long he had been driving or how far he had come. Maybe if he could just sleep somewhere, pull over and sleep, he thought he had driven far enough. He looked at the gas gauge, it said it was still over half full.

Jesse tried hard to pull his foot up, but his knee had locked, in fact, his whole body was rigid. _Can rigor mortis set up in a live person?_ He heard something panting in the car (was someone in here? He hadn't looked into the car well before his crazed drive), and realized it was him.

_Slow up, slow up_, that smart voice in his head spoke again. _It's better now, it's better._

"Is it? No? Yes?" he fumbled the words out loud. Jesse Fragmentedman. Living in the conditions he had been living in for the past few months,

_years? lifetimes?_

he had gone deep within himself, surfacing only occasionally when a particularly hard blow woke him to some question.

"How much aluminum did you put in? Was it the right amount? It doesn't look right." That awful, familiar, drawl. Oh, each point of meth purity was a hard won agony. The scars on his face when he was knocked into a broken trolley edge, almost costing him an eye. The bigger scars on his body coldly, but still lovingly, put there by the sadistic Todd who seemed to be experimenting with pain. He saw the remnants of a tarantula in a jar Todd had tossed around carelessly in the lab. The pieces were all there, each leg segment that Todd cut off to see how many the tarantula needed to move around. How would the thing react to having just half a leg? Would it still be able to get up on it? Would one side of its body tilt more than another? It looked very methodical, and he imagined Todd examining it very carefully, making mental notes, proudly finding a way to feed it so that it could still eat without its front legs. At some point the spider stopped eating, and he took off its mouth parts. It looked like he got it down to one leg, or at least half a leg, and there would still be some reaction from the poor creature, a little more when Todd then started on its eyes. Did he really imagine himself a perfect, chiseled, unfeeling blond trooper back in the Third Reich, efficiently wringing answers from captives, secrets from enemies, work from the near dead? It certainly made Todd smile, beatifically, when Jesse finally did what he said. And Todd's alternate nursing gentleness only made the beatings worse.

_Don't think about it. Don't think. Time to sleep_. He was surprised when he found the car coasting to a stop. It was some sort of clearing, off the road, smooth sand beneath. Soft sand. Cool breeze. Sleepy night. New Mexico could be both tender and harsh. Like Todd.

_He's dead, gone, never to touch you again_. The goal wasn't the pleasurable acts for Todd, it was the thrill of watching something break. And pieced back together to his liking.

Some say the desert can heal, has a mysticism old and creative, can give back rebirth. Jesse hoped these things were true as he slowly collapsed into desert-silent sleep.

…

Walter's throat felt like someone had cut it. Then that someone sawed off his head, unseated his brains, pushed them back in again, and reattached the whole contraption with dirty vacuum cleaner hoses and slimy aquarium tubing. He hoped something like that didn't really happen. He badly wanted to cough, to cough out a lung if he could, but some brick in his throat prevented him. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, a cackling, dancing throbbing that scolded his audacity, and bad judgment, at being alive. He felt the machines breathing for him, washing his blood as it re-circulated back into his body, heard the various monitors sound, ready to clang should some vital system, man-made or natural, break down with explosive stillness.

Someone mostly in painful white came through the door. He closed his eyes and tried to calm that wayward heartbeat. More time to think before being noticed, that strategy worked for him his entire life - Heisenberg's life, too.

The nurse was not dressed in an old-fashioned uniform, she just liked white. It was such a shiny color, so clean, bright, soothing. She pulled her thin, soft sweater sleeve back, revealing carnations of freckles over a thick wrist. Pale, cloudy blue veins peeped under translucent skin. She always wore 50+ sunscreen against the New Mexico sun, but the field of carnations flowered more each day. What would the cancer feel like? Spreading, always spreading, through layer after layer, deeper, farther, bloodier. What does it feel like?

The tiger was in his cage lying in front of her. The bars were made of tubing and wires, walls of machines and pumps, the raised sides of the hospital bed. She heard there was some debate whether to actually handcuff him in some way, and the doctors loudly saw to that "no." The bed did have some restraint straps on it, but no one pulled them on yet. She smirked. Some of the nurses didn't even want to enter this room and refused the shift. How the news lies and clouds weak minds. People have stopped thinking for themselves. From what she read, and she had to seek out more info. than most and read between the lines, this was a thinking beast. Although she thought beast was much too harsh a word when looking at him. He was so thin. She hoped there would be a day that she could feed him a bowl of broth. Maybe she would even make it herself.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The nurse was watching the 11 o'clock news, now extended well past midnight. There had been a flurry of Breaking News reports over the last hour, but the official newscast was airing now. Heisenberg Has Been Captured! Analysts excitedly hiccupped across the screen, talking heads blathered about relieved mothers with high school teens, it was amazing how so many witnesses could pop up to an event only a handful of people, well, living people, saw.

_Wait, even the SWAT team didn't actually see anything_.

There was a camera pan of dark sheds waiting in the glare of helicopter searchlights, waiting for their secret contents to be exposed. A single voice on the tv chirped again. "Well, there you have it. After all this bloodshed, and reports of an amazing body count…"

"And Arty, I bet the SWAT team was happy it wasn't any of their bodies."

"Yes, I'm sure they are happy about that! Good thing, body armor. After all this bloodshed, Heisenberg is ensconced in an undisclosed New Mexico hospital, in critical condition, and rumored near death."

"Near death isn't dead, Arty."

"Yes, and the DEA is good with that. They are anxious to probe the mind of the Blue Death creator."

The good nurse glanced over at her patient. He seemed to be sleeping soundly again, his eyelids flickering in dreams, and the machines dutifully hissed on. Hissing, that's probably what the nation is doing to the healthy looking pic of W.W. (deranged school teacher! watch your children!) being flashed on all the news reports. Walter White, evil among the innocents, corrupter of pre-adults, selling and recruiting to his own students. Walter White, even the name is deception. Oh, her colleagues wondered why she didn't pull a few plugs right then and there.

She wished they could see a real picture of him as he lay there, a skeleton under thin sheets.

Well, why shouldn't they? The only prohibition to cell phones in the critical ward was that they had to be in "airplane mode." Fishing out her deluxe, big screen, silvery, mega-pic-celled? smart phone from its shiny case in her sweater pocket (bought for her by a caring nephew who adored all things technical), she never could figure out what they meant by that.

…

The teen heard his sweet "message received" voice go off. He loved that voice. He heard it 150 times a day, and that was a slow day. Justin was a blogger, a tweeter, a facer, a web slinger, any net-social means he could spread his Just Message on he could, and hell damn would, do. He looked down at his cell phone. Oh, oh, it was his crazy nurse aunty. It was such a waste to try to get her to understand anything electronic. In the hospital, she could sometimes go through patient screens by route, her mind still worked that way as long as nothing changed. Fortunately, Unix based hospital systems were as cemented as the adobe basements they worked out of. Well, no, to be fair, the New Mex hospitals weren't that bad, and better than their reputations, but boy, some of the staff were sure old, and off.

At his mom's prodding, and expense, Justin bought his aunt the latest and greatest in telecommunications profundity. To be honest, he wanted to play with it himself, and used it several months before repacking it, only minor food stains notable, and handing it to his pleased aunt. She gushed over it and poked at it, fat fingers skidding past the edges, and had no idea how it worked. It was sure bright, though. Justin, mercifully, set it up so she could just poke a few places and bring up a short list of her most likely calls. His mom wanted to make sure she could reach them when she went off on one of her anxiety rants. She was deathly worried about her skin. Blotches over her cheeks and chin, even on her eyelids, worried her endlessly, and living in New Mexico didn't help. She wanted to wear an Arab head scarf, but in white instead of black, complete with a face veil that went over her eyes and underneath her wire glasses. There was some kind of mesh in it so you could still see, kinda, but the family was concerned that NRA rifle cocks would mistake her for a Real Arab, and everyone else as just plain nuts.

"It's the sun, the killer sun!" she would yell as the New Mexico morning streamed into her bedroom and over mottled blankets. "I hate it here, I want to move, IWANTTOMOVE!" Justin remembered that morning mantra even as a (younger) kid, and now, thankfully, his I-Stamp musically drowned it out most bad days.

Aunty wakes up with a new obsession these mornings. He could never understand why a 56 year old, white, New Mexico bred, conservative health worker would be interested in stories about some weird, bald, mythical druggie who could cook up blue clouds of manic happiness at night and teach sleepy young-uns by day. No one in his family was an addict (except maybe for the Web, admittedly ;), but… some old, blue psycho?

Takes one to know one, Justin.

Now tonight, most of America knows one. And they want to know more.

"Yes, Aunty?"

"How do you do that, know who's calling you? You are just too smart, mister." Justin sounded so sweet to her over the phone. He was such a good child. Too bad he was just a little too young to have known Walter White as a teacher. He could have learned to really _think_. How could anyone not learn from such an intelligent man. "Honey, I'm sorry to bother you from your studies, and so late, but I thought with all the news you'd still be up." Justin popped another moon pie chunk into his mouth and turned down the shooting volume of his game. "I just wanted to ask… well, you said my phone could take a picture?"

"Yeah, Aunty Rose, it's a little button on the side of the phone."

"There's lots of buttons on the side of the phone, sweetheart."

"The button has a little icon like a circle on it."

"I'm looking for a… cir-cle?" Rose squinted, but even with a magnifying glass, which she forgot to bring along in all her excitement that evening, she wouldn't know what she was looking for.

"Well, you know, Aunty, there's not really that many buttons (when the hell did seven buttons become overwhelming for a grown-up?), so why don't you point it and push each button until a picture comes up."

"Point, honey?"

"The top of the screen. You know, like a tv set, the top."

"Where you put the flower vase on it?"

Flower vase? He had to reach back in his memory past flat screen tv's. In the Before Time.

"No, Aunty, near the top. You'll see a, ugh, I mean, uh, circle."

Rose squinted at her phone again. "Oh yes, I do see that one. It's like a piece of glass. Point that?"

"Yes, Aunty, yes." Justin nodded his head vigorously, as if she could see him doing that, he was that frustrated. "Point that, and push the buttons."

"Okay, honey. I hope it works. Thank you, good night."

"Good night, Aunt Rose." Oh God, what the heck could that old bag of crazy want a picture of? A cat? A cute pigeon? And where the heck would it go with all that button pushing. Eh, who cares, it couldn't be anything good.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Sorry, I should have said W.W.'s a rabid cat full of bad pennies, always turning up." - Saul Goodman (Cinnabon 3 Manager, "Moving up!")

Marie Schrader stroked the soft, delicate skin of her palms and remembered her husband's touch. The familiar feel of crying emptiness welled, tears flowing before the dawn. Waking was her daily burden, another quiet day without him, cold morning light laughing at her pain filled eyes. She wanted the world to be as dark as her thoughts, for always.

_They caught him, and __**still**__ alive._ Marie clenched her teeth at the idea, to the point of breaking. The things she wanted to do to him, that traitor, that monster Judas - my own blood.

_I'm taking that blood back._

Hank would have been the one trying to distract her from such thinking. He would have told her such venom only kills her, tears at her mind and spirit, creates a monster inside. He loved her heart, caring, kind, tender, even when he was being an ass to her, and he knew many times he was.

_Why can't you be here with me?_ This plea was so loud in her, so longing, so constant, she was surprised the cosmos didn't just appear Hank out of nothing before her and end this farce of her human existence. You're supposed to be here, Hank, you're supposed to be here. This wasn't part of the deal.

_Yes it was, babe._ Hank would have said that with a grin on his face, always partly joking, all serious.

Not-By-Him! She gnashed her teeth again, tasting faint iron and copper. Some army drug cartel could have killed you, some cross fire shoot out could have killed you, some high junkie, not _Him_.

_A meth kingpin fits into those scenarios, sweetie_.

He was supposed to have loved you! You loved him.

There was silence to that question. Even in her own mind, that question would forever bring silence.

Marie sat up abruptly, wiped her tears with a cold hand, drank water from a vigilant glass on her bedside table. For a minute she thought of nothing, her mind blank to everything around her, invisible to the uncaring cosmos. Then she tried to remember all the places Hank kept his guns.

...

Flynn Lambert was sobbing in Skyler's embrace. This was not an unusual thing of late, but the news of Walter's capture unleashed tidal waves of conflict through his young soul. She wished she could take it all away for him, take it on in some way even when her own life was dying.

"Please Flynn, shhh… shhh." She tried to make her voice soothing between her own quiet sobs. She forced her tears back, resolved. "Look, we're not responsible for him anymore, he abandoned us long ago, it's just as if a stranger was on the news."

Flynn shook his head violently against her chest. The volume of his sobs grew quieter, but shook his fragile psyche and body more. She had to concede to the deep, bottomless hurt. "Ok, Flynn, ok… you're right." Her breaths were catching again. She opened her eyes wide so they could dry, looked around the dingy rooms, the old pictures, the shreds of memories. She wished the morning would come faster, to have something besides all these shadows here. Then she wondered if there would ever be a real morning for them again. Whispering to her son, saying the hopeful things that must be said, "We'll get through it all, my baby, we will… we will."

**…**

Jesse dreamt. For most of the night he slept soundly and dreamless, wrapped in black exhaustion. The heat of the New Mexico sun roasted the air in his metal cocoon, and he became restless. He was in his cell again. They removed the tarp over his prison when they remembered, if it wasn't a late beer and gun cleaning night, and sometimes they would get to him by noon. By then he could hardly breathe the superheated air of his cell and was licking the dripping cement walls for condensation. Uncle Jack finally scolded his guys, making them each take a morning shift to "make sure he lived through the week. It was good meth and money, and it don't cost much to feed him, need I say more?" They did what Uncle Jack said, but took a lot of shortcuts in their responsibilities. Fire hosing his cell at night, with him in it, of course, was one of their favorites, figuring the water and cooling evaporation would extend some of the morning. And it "makes the stink less in there," they laughed.

_Tarantula in a jar_, Jesse thought many torturously bitter nights and burning mornings. _I'll make you pay back for each piece, somehow_.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Who's Walter White? I don't know him." - Saul Goodman (Cinnabon 47 Assistant Manager to Assistant Manager, "Don't ask.")

Walter White woke countless times to a strange looking woman compassionately looking into his face. He was crashing in and out of awareness, so often he made it into a practiced sport, the award being if he actually survived the hour.

_Days? Weeks?_ He couldn't feel or gage his beard to tell. The blurred face was looking at him again. He didn't expect it to ever belong to Skylar or Walt Jr. or… or… who was left? Maybe he really should give himself to the blackness. _It might be my only time to do so_.

_No, be honest now, no harm in it at this shrugging point, you've had a number of times to do that_. He always felt cowardly,

_though a live coward can fight better another day than a dead hero_

which is why he emptied that vial. It was given to him the first time by Saul's gunman, a curiosity back then, something he collected from WW2.

"Back then, the soldiers were given this vial in their emergency packs, they were supposed to carry it around with them all the time, for when they got shot. You took it right after you got shot, and if you could get to it and put it into your mouth, you were most likely going to survive." The grizzly gunman scratched his beard as he handed him the vial.

Walter had looked at the gray, glistening powder, fascinated that such a small amount could do any good. "What is it?" he asked with a little awe.

The growly voice continued. "It was supposed to be real advanced government stuff. All the soldiers had it, but some probably had a better version than others, according to their rank. This was supposed to be officer stuff, maybe even higher, but who knows after all these years. It probably doesn't work anymore, and I don't know why if so many soldiers had it more of it isn't around. I only gave you a little portion, you are supposed to take what looked like 15 times more than that, but even 15 times more isn't that much. I reckon, you being a chemist, you could figure it out, and tell me, or make me some. I'd be beholden to you if you did. Could you even tell what it was after all this time? Would all the chemicals… go bad? You'd understand I'd really like some if it really worked like they said, being in the business I am. It could just be talc and gunpowder though for all I'd know, and I'd have been taken in by those WW2 myths like others."

"Well, it could be true. There are things like powder made from pufferfish liver that slows down heartbeats. You know, those zombie, witch doctor, voodoo movies? That's why those zombies move so slow, the powder slows down all muscle tissue."

"That stuff is nothing like zombie stuff. You survive the shot just fine, no jerking around."

"Actually, a lot of the brain damage came because the "witch doctor" didn't unbury zombie powder victims fast enough. They are always buried by their relatives. Just not enough oxygen in their coffins for all those hours before the doctor comes and claims you. They want that a lot of the time, so you are a more obedient slave for them. Thinking slaves always rebel."

The gun man patiently waited for Walt to stop talking. He was sure a talker. "Well, just make me some, and I'll get you real good deals in the future."

"Alright, I'll see what I can do. Guinea pigs are easy to come by."

"Hey, you're more awake right now aren't you?" The nurse looked at him as if she knew what he was thinking. "Today is Tuesday, Oct. 1, 2013. You have been in the hospital for 2 days. You are on various life support equipment, but you are doing quite well. Try to relax and let them work when you are awake like this, even though it hurts. My name is Rose, and I will do what I can for you." She stood over him, smiling, her lips lightly twitching. Was she about to cry? Walter tried to say something to the nurse, forgot he couldn't and gagged. "Oh God, sorry," a horrified look came over Rose's face. "I should have said don't try to talk. Don't do anything, don't try to gasp, just let the machines breathe for you." White focused hard to relax his throat muscles. Now **he** was crying in his efforts. The good nurse was right there with soft Kleenex, competently drying tears. "Yes, it's very hard trying not to breathe, to have no control of your body like that. It always surprises people. You would think doing absolutely nothing is easy." She smiled.

_Yes, Walter White, proud Meth Overlord, chemical genius, now just a head on a stick_. Justice?

"It'll get better, Mr. White. You will get off this ventilator, I can tell. The dialysis will lessen as you get stronger. Sometimes you don't need it altogether right away." She looked into his eyes closely, conspiratorially. "Do you feel up to having the doctor come in? You don't have to yet, and they can be abrupt and," she lowered her voice, disapprovingly, "so inappropriate when they talk to patients." She paused for emphasis. "It's all up to you, at least you can control **that** when I'm around." She smiled again. "You can look up for yes, down for no. I hate all that blinking once for yes crap." White moved his eyes down. He didn't want to see anyone new yet, it was too much effort. And if he was alive or dead, he'd be the first to know, and that was the only important question right now.

…

The physician was arguing with the DEA agents outside the patient's room. No, he couldn't tell them when White would come out of his near coma. Had they forgotten what critical condition meant? They may never get their answers, he chided them. The doctor's weren't all knowing gods, this was New Mexico.

"Doc, you don't understand how much the agency wants to talk to this guy, _right now_." Agent Artie Hamel glared at the older, shorter, bespectacled practitioner as if he was holding something back from him, him and the rest of the world. It was Artie's modus operandi attitude, to make people feel guilty, put them on the defensive, when he couldn't get what he wanted.

"Want to talk to him or want his blood? You just want to go in there to agitate him, maybe get more truth that way, you're thinking? Or maybe you're curious to see him tortured under those machines? You'll kill him. I watch the news too though it gets to be a waste of time. You **Can't Go In**. I have to separate myself from the populous and my opinion trumps yours, and theirs, every day of the week."

"Whaddabout just five minutes, doc," his partner, Agent Scott Walker, broke in. He knew Hamel would get vicious in a few more minutes if he didn't get some headway soon. "It's been two days."

"Two days? Why don't you try two months? Why don't you try forever? My function is to the patient, not you, not your department, not the president, you know that, why are you still here badgering me?" The doctor seemed to magically grow two feet in front of them, eyes blazing. "Conversation over, gentlemen."

The agents walked away from him in disgust, only the single, dutifully impartial police guard remained stoically in his place. Artie and Scott talked over if another doctor would see it their way. They'd get in there, and right soon.

_At least there's no mob of reporters or other nuts outside the hospital_, the doctor sighed to himself. And I have to deal with a bunch of twitching meth heads with stranger symptoms I've never seen before. Seemed to him like New Mexico was ready to break open a fresh portal to damnation.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Jesse Pinkman was so thirsty, and hungry, but he had nothing resembling money on him. He looked over the vast desert, so beautiful even in his starvation. Not an oasis in sight, but he remembered something about barrel cactuses in some junior high science class. The teacher believed, rightly, that his students would remember things about their special, local flora and fauna better than about distant old growth forests, California sequoias and counting rings. Such practical information could save their life someday, too.

Jesse broke off the radio antennae of the ancient, bruised and battered truck. This was an old trick and vicious weapon when it came to fending off junkies in crack houses. He thought he would be able to whip open the top of a juicy, fat cactus, and then there would be all this wet pulp inside. He remembered from that old science lesson that it was okay if the taste was a little bitter, just not too much, and that if you looked closely you might see some red or green stubs that were their fruit randomly sticking out of them. He didn't care about the taste. The water was sweet on his tongue and whatever vitamins were in it was far fresher than anything given to him in weeks. He did find a few fruit in taller Joshua trees, and they were so deliciously sugary to him, despite the innumerous hard seeds which he also swallowed gladly.

_I'm going to be shitting like a goat_, he thought, _if I_ _can get any more food into me_.

When he was through with his foraging, he tried to figure out where he could go. He couldn't go home, who knew what was waiting for him there. He couldn't go to Andea,

_Andrea. Brock_. The sting of tears came to his eyes, though he still didn't have enough water in him for more than the pain.

_Brock_. He would have been long gone from that rented house he made possible for them. His grandmother would have taken him in, but where was she? Did Brock even want to see him? Did he hear Jesse's name spoken when his mother died? If Brock heard any of the conversation from his front, bedroom window upstairs, from his semi-awake dreams, now nightmares, he had to have heard that "Jesse's here, I brought him." Did he blame Jesse?

_Brock, I'm so sorry,... I'm sorry I can't see you, I'm sorry for everything. I hurt everyone that knows me_. Could he ever make any of it up? Was he Heisenberg too? Does Heisenberg turn everyone he touches into him?

_I can't be like him, I have to make my mistakes right. I can do it, I have to do it, __**I'm**__ still alive_.

…

Justin saw an image flash up on his cel phone. He couldn't believe she did it, she actually sent out a picture. _Old bag must have pushed the right buttons._ The photo was a little fuzzy and too close, but he saw the haggard, lined face of Heisenberg take up the entire screen. He was missing the hat and sunglasses, and he was about a thousand pounds underweight, but that was the guy. His aunt even left a little tag under the photo, the software always asked if you wanted to. _Oh my God, she's taking care of him? _ That was so cool. His homeroom would just die if they knew who his aunt was taking care of. Why wasn't she on the news yet?

Justin wondered what his "Just Message" would be about this photo. He had to do something with this cool pic, something extraordinary, he had to present it just right. How did he feel about the Meth King? What did he have to say?

_Even for an old fart, Heisenberg was kinda badass_. Then he noticed his aunt's picture tag went on for quite a bit. She typed some long*sh*t* message to him, -_wrong place aunty, but, oh well_- and it seemed rather passionate. What _did_ she want? He pushed talk when his cel asked him if he wanted to reply to the sender.

(I think this is going to be, _like_, a hundred parts? Mostly disorganized, unpredictable, and HTML challenged. Oh, I also tend to add a little more to the previous "chapter." Forgive me, and for reader frustrations. You've been warned. ;) :)


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

Brandon "Badger" Mayhew lived in a low income, monthly rented, mobile and vagrant infested second story motel room of a pigeon shit building in an outer, dirty borough of downtown New Mexico. He got his rent from odd jobs, "badgering" friends, strangers, and family for funds (thus his nickname), and most recently, selling blue. His rooms were decorated with stolen movie posters from Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones (these were less well guarded than other series' posters), and ripped out magazine ads for Babylon 5. His biggest goal in life was to acquire a blow up doll of princess Leia in her metallic slave bikini. Still, barring that future acquisition, his greatest pride was his Captain Kirk toilet seat that commands, "Beam me up, Scotty!" when you flushed.

Badger's cat hated him. He forgot to feed him and smelled of beer and sharp chemicals. His plastic, action figure toys were always underpaw, and he coughed up more fur balls (or something) than it did. The cat had learned long ago to rush out the door any time it was open. Once outside, it could find many fat, juicy rats, loads of hot dogs and burger bits, and mangy cat tail. This fully equipped tom cat was found as a kitten by Badger when they were both foraging in the garbage bins behind Chick-fil-A. The cat had days of fun even in the mean streets outside, and, despite the hate, it was a meeting of the minds and good lifestyle pairing for the both of them.

Both Badger and the cat were shocked when they found Jesse quietly standing outside the door of the motel room.

"Hey, Jesse man!" Badger exclaimed when he saw him. Even the cat in its rush out the door stopped for a moment to sniff the intriguingly odorous human before getting on with its day. "Dude, it's been forever! You look mondo grungy, have you been having fun?" Badger opened the door further and Jesse walked slowly to the fluorescent flickering, dingy kitchenette. He took a toothpaste stained jar on the counter and drank 5 cups of water, looked down when he finished and did not turn around.

"Jesse, man. Hey." Badger walked a little closer. Though a major slacker and selfish in his addictions, he knew what bad times looked liked from the streets. "Come on, it's me. Talk to me." Jesse still stood quietly with his back to him, arms rigid on sink, eyes down. "Well, how about some munchies?" Badger opened his mini-fridge and looked hopefully inside. He knew nothing was in the block of ice that was his freezer, and below was a remnant of peanut butter in a licked out jar, no jam in the raspberry jar, three empty beer bottles - "I'm growing yeast, man. Microbrewery!" - a few very stale saltines still in its cardboard box sans plastic wrap, and mold. The quiet man wandered over, interested, and looked over Brandon's shoulder. Jesse suddenly reached in and grabbed a can of cat food from a small stack on top of a shelf, popped the top and downed the entire contents with one swallow.

"Hey, no man, I'll find you something better. Sorry for no food around." He looked into Jesse's sad, self-conscious face, which seemed to say he didn't deserve more than pet food. "No, man, Jesse," he tried awkwardly to put his arm over his since high school friend's shoulder. He noticed Pinkman's long lived-in clothes reeked at this distance, but he didn't care. Jesse ducked away from his touch. "It's okay, dude. Mi case, su casa. Look, I'll go out and get some stuff. Use my couch, use anything in here, see if you can find some clothes…" Brandon swiveled his head around the perpetually disarrayed apartment, "… around. The stuff on the floor is pretty bad, don't use that. Anything you particularly want?"

Jesse whispered, surprised at his own voice. He wasn't used to being spoken to lately, not with warmth or concern. "Fresh things, fruit, vegetables, real meat. No burgers, fries, pizza." He was shoved too much half eaten fast food in his pit.

"O-kay… hmmm…" Badger was hard pressed to think of other major food groups. "Chinese?" Jesse looked at him disappointedly. "Ok, ok, I'll go down to the Safeway. I'll get some good stuff, promise." Badger lightly put his arms around his friend's shoulders. "I'll do good by you, Jesse. It's great to just see you." He turned to go and Jesse involuntarily grabbed Brandon's shirt, real fear in Pinkman's eyes. That frightened Badger. "It's alright man. I'll be back real soon, you won't even miss me." He gently pulled Jesse's death grip from his clothes. "You'll be more comfortable here." Badger sauntered to the door. He felt good taking care of something bigger than a cat, and having a useful task, it had been a while. And Jesse was here! It was always fun when he was around. "And no more cat food. Pus'll be angry with you."

…

It was so good taking a shower again. He saw sand and caked on dirt go down Badger's drain and hoped it would not clog. His skin soaked up the moisture, and he felt the desert pit was losing a small grip on its victim. Small, dark scabs momentarily littered the tiles at his feet before continuing their journey away. He wished his dark memories could fall away as easily. Jesse opened his mouth to the man made rain and swallowed, a never-ending thirst.

Drying, refreshed, shaven - and hungry! he hoped Badger would be back soon - he sat on the couch in some borrowed, sniffed at shorts and t-shirt and flicked on the tv.

20 minutes later, Badger returned with a roasted chicken, some frozen corn and peas he could quickly hotplate, fresh carrots and celery, some rolls, a new jar of peanut butter, and to a completely empty apartment.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

Walter White was staying awake longer as the machines did their jobs and his body began recovering. The ricocheted, blunted bullet that hit his back passed through a kidney and exited cleanly through his side into the floorboard beneath him, missing Jesse Pinkman except for a burn mark he would only discover days later. Walter would have bled to death from the internal hemorrhaging and blood loss had the contents of the vial not extremely lowered all body systems, in the same manner as the famous zombie pufferfish powder, leaving its victims seemingly ready for (premature) burial. Fortunately, the entire (DEA Dept., West) wanted the school teacher so much that they didn't mind spending extra taxpayer monies to make sure he wasn't absolutely dead. They wanted to do the job right themselves - killing him slowly with extended trials and jail time and exclusive access. Death was too easy an end for him, bomb terrorist, spreading national threat to all youths everywhere, DEA executioner, he stood for things that were just inexcusable, especially for a regular, Everyman citizen they couldn't 100-par-cent vilify. No, this concept could not stand. Heisenberg had to pay, and in a manner not as easily forgettable and forgivable as a mere death in the nation's hive awareness.

So the SWAT team did not put White into a body bag and call it a day. They had been accused many times of always shooting first and not asking any questions later. In a sense, that is what they are called in to do. Others have to ask the questions. For this blessed event, they did no shooting, did not talk to anyone, and ended up with a great deal of body bags, though that was also someone else's job.

Another team did find an extraordinary amount of money buried in different parts of the compounds, some behind walls, some in a pile of old tires, one sack under a dog house, it was quite an Easter egg hunt. People did not realize that the microscopic security threads put into bills for the past few decades sent out certain electronic signals that, if you had the right Federal equipment, can make them easily recoverable, you could even count the denominations in a pile underground. They recovered about 40 million dollars, and had a feeling there was more out there, but still within grasp. Neo-nazis' had paranoid tendencies, and kept their money close. The only thing they found more caches of than cash, was guns.

The machines kept White's brain fully oxygenated, unlike the unfortunate, buried zombies in the making, and his blood clean and refreshed. He had been given several blood transfusions, so his body easily flushed out the remains of the drug, and his systems came back online quickly. The surgeon had quickly patched up his wounds at admittance, and his other kidney functioned perfectly, dialysis was just to make sure the first would recover with time and the second not fail under stress.

They took him off the respirator the third day, though he had coughing fits with blood and they eased that with strong muscle relaxants. He was woozy and in a very weakened state, but recovering quickly, too quickly, if doctors cared or dared to question such happy rarities.

"Don't even try to talk, Mr. White, it'll be easier later and better for your throat and lungs. Let's just keep our system going a little longer, okay?"

White looked up at his nurse, the only one, that he remembered, that seemed to be caring for him. He was able to focus more on her now. She had enlarged freckles, patches really, all along her face - on her cheeks, over her eyes, from her temples to her chin, she almost seemed to be wearing a robber's mask. Her blunted features were hard to distinguish, and she also seemed somewhat puffed up, her cheeks, her hands, her midriff, perhaps the effects of medications. There was a look in her eyes White couldn't place, but she always looked kindly on him, a thing that hadn't existed for him for the past 2 years. Pity, yes, kindness, no. Was it pity that she had for him?

She got in closely and whispered, "I told the people _outside_ that you couldn't talk at all yet. Even that you were hardly awake. I can tell them that for a long time if you want." White nodded his head slowly. "Good!" she exclaimed, "I have you all to myself!" She grinned mischievously. "I think you can begin to eat. I bet you're hungry after all this time with just dripped nourishment. You want me to sneak you some light soup from the café? It's my lunch break and since you're off the respirator I can take it in here, no one will be suspicious of a little food in the room. How about vegetable soup, I can strain out the solid parts?" Walt nodded his head with some enthusiasm in his eyes. "Good! I was waiting for this day! I didn't think it would be so soon."

…

It was impossible for Flynn Lambert to go into school. Reporters hounded him at the doors and principal Molina had to call in police the first day to restore some order to the students, and then security guards thereafter. The school couldn't afford the guards for long and it was decided that Flynn stay at home until things settled, meaning indeterminately. The reporters followed Flynn home, of course.

"Get away from here! You have no right to bother us like this! FFuu*k Off!" Flynn shouted at them. He almost fell through his doorway as reporters crushed him for a statement, kicking his supports from under him. Skyler pulled him inside just in time and shouted, "I'm calling the police! Get away from us! You're all shameless!"

"**Us**, shameless?" a few newsmen, many not local and a few even international jeered back, with other choice comments.

She and Flynn huddled inside the dark with the curtains drawn.

"I hate him, mom, I hate him. Before he caused so much trouble, and now…!" There was such a look of extreme emotions crossing through him, hate, anger, fear, loneliness, betrayal, that she couldn't bear focusing on his face. She looked away, heard the crowd moving and yelling questions outside, and the police were slow to respond to her calls. She was waiting for when other crowds would show up there, the ones calling for Heisenberg's blood, the one's outraged that his family, his evil _progeny_, who probably caused, demanded, and certainly benefited from all his actions, is allowed to flourish. She knew it would all get twisted like this, and until White could be brought before them, the public, the judges, on his knees, **they** would be his substitute for their anger.

She heard the police cars briefly wail as they pulled up outside. They came a little quicker this time, probably because the neighbors were screaming, not for them. The grumble of noise moved off, and she heard news vans starting to pull away, though probably not far away. They would be sneaky now, hiding behind bushes, ready to pounce. She hoped it would only be the reporters pouncing. The police did not knock on her door, to check on them, to give her reassurances. They did not want to see her, and besides, they had no reassurances to give. They were alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

The pit. (Laughter)

The full force of the fire hose slammed into Jesse's chest. He was battered into the furthest crevice of his prison, gravel cutting into his scalp, bloody rivulets opening in his forearms. He ducked his head into his chest, threw his arms over his ears and eyes. He could hardly breathe or save his eardrums from tearing. His eyes bruised against their sockets.

The men above, the moonlight outlining their bulk, their faces in darkness, were laughing. One man, complaining about all the beer he had, began urinating into the corrugated grate. "As good a place as any!" he guffawed.

"Ah, just wait until the buffalo wings hit ya!" a third man exclaimed as he redirected the hose back into the pit.

"I don't think it's very clean in there, and tomorrow's supposed to be a hot one. What else can we do?"

"Eh, why don't we throw some dollars in there. He can wipe his ass with 'em. We have so much."

"Yeah, Jesse, it's pay day. You want some dollars?" They looked into the corner at the wet lump moaning there. Those sounds only made them meaner, and hungrier. "You know how to get them, right?"

_They're drunk again. They're not going to stop. I'm going to die tonight._ A relief almost went through Jesse at that thought, he only hoped they were drunk enough to make a mistake, to make it quick, as he hoped on other nights.

"Hey, hey, you're going to drown him. Remember what uncle Jack said." Todd came up from the parking lot and put a restraining hand on the fire nozzle, jerked it up and away. The drunk men dropped it - it whip-lashed across the compound and upended a security camera stationed over the cell. Finally, one guy staggered over to the shut off wheel, and the hose collapsed. He flicked back on the overhead compound light.

"Ah, we were getting tired of the whole thing anyway," one sputtered as they headed for the clubhouse, ready for another drink or the massage chair. "You go clean him up."

Todd looked down into the pit, saw Jesse curled up in a fetal position, arms over his head, small mewling sounds coming from deep in his throat. Water poured from his nose and ears, water and blood. Todd finished his cigarette, slowly contemplating, and reached down to the 5 dial combination lock that ensured Jesse would never get out of his cell again. Todd pulled over the metal, hook ladder and lowered himself down into the dark.

Jesse could not hear Todd approaching, there was too much damage, but he sensed a shadow crossing his one light source above, and tried to back further against the wall. Quiet gasps he could not hear escaped him, though he tried to be silent, terrified.

"Ok, Jesse, get up," Todd drawled. He nudged him with his foot.

Jesse looked up swiftly. _Not Todd_. He held his breath. Sometimes with the others, if he begged pitifully enough, humiliated himself enough, they were amused and left him alone after awhile. Todd didn't understand such niceties.

"Please, Todd, I'm alright, I just need to sleep. Just let me sleep, so I can cook in the morning."

"You can't stay in those wet clothes. Get up."

Jesse knew better than to argue with Todd. A swift, hard blow would follow if he didn't move, and he thought his injured eardrums would burst if that happened. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave out and he fell to one knee, pain bursts everywhere. "I can't get up, T-Todd, …p-please."

"You're such a whiner, Jesse." Alquist remembered the confessional tape Pinkman made for that DEA agent, the bald, fat one they shot, the one he liked playing parts of over and over, and smiled. "Alright, take your clothes off from down there."

Hesitant, Jesse began pulling off his soaking, stinking clothes. He wiped some of the blood off with his shirt, and held it toward Todd. Todd watched impassively, taking it.

"Okay, the pants," Alquist said matter-of-factly.

"The manacles?" Jesse questioned, softly.

"Just take them off."

Jesse began doing what Todd wanted. He stopped when he reached the leg shackles, did not pull the pants over the chain.

Todd bent over, clicked open the locks at Jesse's ankles, and murmured, "Remember, Brock, don't do anything," as he took the pants and reattached one lock back onto Jesse's leg. The other end he locked onto a metal loop newly drilled into the cell wall. "When I come back, we'll have to scrub you up some. I'll also clean out the… room a bit. I'll come back with some fresh things."

Todd eyed Jesse. "You going to be thankful to me later?" Jesse looked down, silent. He couldn't look at Todd's dead eyes. "Good. I don't ask for much, Jesse, for all my work," Todd drawled lazily.

_… and __**He**__ did this all to me._


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9

**Badger's Cat Adventure:** Badger's cat ran around and around in circles, claws clicking on cement, a demented look on its fastidious cat face, chasing a bit of smelly, homeless guy's hair clump that got caught in the end of its tail.

_It's my owner's hairball!_ the cat loathed to himself, _It stinks like him!_ _He cleans other people with his tongue, why can't he clean himself more! I hate him so much. _

The cat sat down, winded, and fumed. He was a cute little short haired tabby, not quite the color of a newly swirled Orange Julius, which was what Badger was hoping for when he grabbed the kitten from the trash bin, but a handsome little cat nonetheless. Brandon made him a collar that first week, a little hard leather and cord job he was very proud of, with special, burned in gothic letters that read, Pus. Not Puss, but Pus. He had forgotten the other "s". The lady cats made fun of Pus when he strolled by, tail in air, trying to look cool and nonchalant.

"Here, Pus, Pus, Pus!" they giggled, "any wriggling sores today? Did you get them from your owner, who cleans you with his germy tongue?" The lady cats were beside themselves, rolling in the giant, open rubbish bins by the pale moonlight behind the transient motel, an otherwise ever so romantic feline scene.

Pus tried to chew his collar again, but it was on perfectly good and tight. Brandon kept fixing it whenever the cord looked a little bit worn.

"People have to know who you are in case you are ever lost, Pus. I don't want to lose you. I love you so much."

_Gads._

The cat sat on his tail and clawed at the soiled, foreign hair again. He finally got it off with his sharp teeth and claws, *ffsttt!* and *whicked* it away, paw vigorously shaking. The offending hairball hit a startled pigeon right in the beak, wetly. _Damn, I have to eat with these paws,_ sniffed the cat, _which reminds me_…, and pounced at the stunned pigeon who took off into the air.

"Duude-cat, ewww, what have you been ingesting?" the pigeon cooed from above. "Ha! Stupid, slow feline."

"Damn you, you damn, dirty-bird! Damn you to hell!" the cat yowled. [Cats always get overdramatic when talking to birds, who are so beneath them, with all that mindless cheeping and cheery singing and happy pooping every 10 minutes. Usually, there's not really talk, per se, just "Hello! You're dead!" if they can keep it to that cat minimum.]

"Which reminds me," cooed the pigeon, and shat enormously on Pus's head.

"Double Damnation!" cried the cat, "Now I have to go off and rub my head on Badgers's lap! And he likes that toooo much!"

Dripping, Pus was now a pathetic sight, though quite befitting his name. He heard sharp-eyed, lady-cat laughter in the distance. He stalked, stiff legged, over to his favorite parking lot refuse basket to calm himself and take his mind off things. He rubbed his head on a convenient vagrant along the way, picking up a few ticks. Ah, the smell of cafeteria food wafted through the air, and he jumped up in anticipation.

"What? Who's been eating my favorite garbage?"

…

Jesse Pinkman threw some hamburger morsels to a hungry cat that was staring at him and yowling. He was sitting in one of 4 area hospitals renowned for its trauma center, and Jesse, being, of course, from the meth overdose and accident world, knew them all. He sat in the hot car waiting for them to come out, the ones who seemed to think everyone visited hospitals in cheap, dark suits and sunglasses. He would even recognize a few of them, what were their names, Artie and Scott? Those two interrogated him themselves, though now his face looked so different he wondered if they could i.d. Jesse so quickly. All he had to do was wait until he saw them, and they would visit, boy, would a bunch of them visit, and harass whoever was taking care of Heisenberg.

…

The nurse needed a bit of fresh air after the long shift. Her patient was resting comfortably, and the long day was coming to an end. The incoming night shift nurses had some of the easiest jobs, making sure patients had their before bed medications and were sleeping well, adjusting monitors, having emergency doctor's numbers at hand, bringing a good book.

She watched as the New Mexico sun gods painted the ancient desert bright orange into deep mahogany before going to bed themselves. Things were quiet, and she easily heard the lonely sobbing nearby.

_Great, another one_, she complained to herself as she dutifully approached the thin teen in oversized clothing and dirty shoes. _This is not a shelter, kid_, she scolded, but talked soothingly to the runaway even so. "Hello. What's wrong?"

The young man that looked up was older than she thought, and didn't have that look in his sharp, blue eyes that druggies had when hanging out on hospital doorsteps. _Not in a while anyway_. She had her myriad of keys prepared between her fingers just in case.

"He's in there, isn't he? Mr. White? He taught me long ago, and, and… he helped me for many years." The young man spoke softly, meekly, but the nurse was alarmed. Even in the soft, evening light she could see the dark scars all along his face, outlining a jaw line, tracing a cheek, wounding the curves of his gaze. They bespoke a history of violence, of brutality, but she wondered which side of that scale he fell to. Deep in his eyes, he seemed to know more about suffering than dealing it.

"Shhh," she said, then realized her mistake.

"He is in there! Please, I need to see him. You don't know how much he's done for me, how long he's been good to me. I just need to see him one more time."

The nurse looked around, frightened that others would overhear their conversation, but the empty, calm night continued. She moved in a little closer, curious, conspiratorially, "You knew him?"

"Yes, I've known him since high school. He's given me money when I needed it, taught me… how to earn a living. I owe my being here to Mr. White."

"How about all those awful things they said he did?" the nurse was just too intrigued.

"Look who he did them to!" Pinkman exclaimed. "They all deserved it. And some of those things they said he did are just lies. I know it. I know it in my heart. He's a good man."

Ah, here was the real story she always expected. She couldn't contain the excitement she felt, learning the Gen-u-ine Truth. No,** they** never tell you these things, **they** have to keep order. She saw honesty in the young man, and paused.

Jesse saw the opportunity. "Please," he continued softly, "I heard he was in critical condition. Is he dying? I just want to see him one last time, to say goodbye. I owe it to him."

"We-lll, he's an important man. No one can see him, just his doctors, and me," she said proudly, "I don't think you can go up there."

"He'll be happy to see me. He really will be."

"He is asleep a great deal. He won't even be able to talk to you. It won't help him."

"Okay, alright, I un-derstand," Jesse stammered, backing down, a dejected look on his face. "Can I at least wait down here? Will you tell me if he gets better, or worse? I want to stay up… with him. A vigil. He's like a father to me."

She looked closely into Jesse's face. He looked away, timidly. There was something in his eyes - a _desperation_. Yet, she liked the quiet, pained, young man. She could tell he had been through too much. They were both scarred in their own ways.

"Why don't you come up with me partway, and I'll talk to Officer Hendricks. He's very tough, and won't go for any nonsense, so you don't say much. If it's no, it's no. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm very grateful to you."

"Yes, okay, come inside. At least you will be out of the cold." She looked at Jesse again. "Whatever happens, will you tell me more about Mr. White? I'll buy you dinner inside even if you say no."

Jesse slowly nodded his head.

[**A/N**: You know that story from The Twilight Zone where the aging daughter is reading her ancient father a suspenseful story each night? She has to end each story, each night, on a "cliff-hanger" so that her father is just itching to hear how the story turns out, and he lives another day because of it. So the father is something like 120 years old, and the daughter writes a new, suspense story segment each night, and teaches the granddaughter to also do it. Just proves that stories are good for you? Um, live long and prosper? ;)]

[**A/N2**: Also, how IS Jesse supposed to get up there? I think that "dresses as an orderly" has been done too many times? You'll see it's not that. It's not keystone cops? Keystone? Argh!]


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

The Intensive Care Unit was controlled chaos as people deep in thought, or grief, passed each other quickly in the halls. Machines lined the walls of each room, lights blinking sympathetically with heart beats, alarms poised to screech in distress. A nurse in what first appears as a mask talks to a badged official in charge of the security of New Mexico's most famous criminal, or alleged criminal, depending on which side of the fan spectrum you stood.

"Are you kidding me? N-O. What are you thinking, Rose?" The officer looked sternly at her, a little flabbergasted.

"Well, so many people and… things are against that man in there, it just seemed human to let him have a visitor. One visitor he knows? I don't think there's ever going to be any more."

"He's a felon, a murderer, I mean," the officer searched for words. He didn't believe he was even having this conversation. "Rose. Why?"

"He's not been convicted of anything. Innocence and all that? From all I've heard, his family doesn't want to see him. They let people in prison, all of them, even murderers, have visitors."

"Not the real dangerous ones, Rose." The officer's sneer traveled down the hall, said hello to Pinkman as the policeman looked him up and down. "Who IS this guy?"

"Just an ex-student. He's known White for a long time, knows a lot about him. Says they're close, that he's like a father to him."

A short bark of a laugh escaped the veteran policeman. "Looks pretty rough for a student. And I don't blame his kid for never wanting to see him again. I've seen a lot in my job, Rosey, a lot of families slaughter each other. No."

"Alright, Officer Hendricks," the nurse sounded a little angry, but resigned. This sort of business, security and all that fuss, was not her job. She guessed she had to trust the judgment of the experienced law enforcement man. She walked back down the busy hall to where Jesse was. "The answer's no, Jesse. I'm sorry. Do you want me to tell him something for you when he's awake?"

"Can I talk to the officer, please, Rose?"

"No, Jesse, I told you, no means no. He's tough. It'll only make things worse."

Jesse called down the hallway, not loudly, but enough so Hendricks could hear. "I'm not going to be any trouble. I just want to see him, before he dies."

The officer stared straight ahead.

"Please, sir, he's my only family." His voice rose toward the end of the plea, and the sobs began again. People began looking at all three of them.

The policeman's voice was low, commanding, dangerous. "Get-Down-Here, both of you." He unclipped his gun, put a ready hand over it, prepared his stance. They both walked very slowly toward him. "Turn around," he ordered Jesse when he got to him, "you're disturbing my ward. Get on your knees, legs apart, hands behind your head. I'm sure you know how to do it." The officer was angry, saw too many druggies in his career, knew their lies. _And this boy knows all the key words to try to pull heartstrings_. He thoroughly frisked Jesse, felt no weapons, wallet, or resources on him or in his empty pockets, felt bone under the loose clothes. He could see the pale strain of hunger in his face, in the darkness under his eyes. He handcuffed Pinkman. The nurse felt very sorry for Jesse, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had just been emotional which was not unusual in that ward, but she remained silent.

"Kid, he can't do any more for you. He can't give you any more money, or drugs, or a place to stay. He's dying, you can't get anything from him, whatever you did to - earn - it."

Jesse shook his head, silent tears falling, tracing his scars, and shaking his hollowed frame.

"I'm not arresting you kid, but I am telling security to take you downstairs and make sure you don't show your face here again. I don't know what you have to do with White, but you can't see him, no one can."

Jesse nodded his head, took a shaking breath.

The officer sighed. He had 3 sons, 2 daughters, all with their own families and happy children. He and his wife visited them as often as they could. One close daughter and her growing family he was able to see every Sunday. It was a tough, complex world, what if everyone he knew never wanted to see him again? And he was dying?

"Rose, you going back inside?"

"Yes, Malcolm, my shift's almost over, though."

"Call David up here. I want you both inside with him."

"Okay, Officer Hendricks. Thank you."

"Thank you, Sir," Jesse said quietly.

The room was cool and darkened for the night shift. Walter White was asleep, lying in the raised hospital bed, a restraint belt loosely fastened above his hips. His wane, lined face looked 10 years older from when Jesse last saw him just a few days ago. He seemed almost thinner than Pinkman was, his fragile chest lightly rising and falling in raspy breaths. He focused on Walter's now lean hands, his skin was translucent and he could see the long, flexible needle of the i.v. going under the flesh. The needle left a bruise from being inside so long.

"Mr. White?" Even to his own ears, Jesse's hollow voice was unbelievably soft, softer than he thought possible at this moment.

Walter took a deep, longer breath, his eyes slowly opened as if to a remembered, pleasant dream. He looked up at Jesse, surprised, yes, and other emotions chased across his face. Walter looked around the room, taking in the nurse sitting in her usual, cushioned hospital chair, a security guard near his bed and close to Pinkman. Pinkman's arms seemed to be behind his back for some reason.

Jesse was only looking at him. The other's didn't seem to notice the intensity that came over Jesse's face, but they were strangers and expected that look in addicts.

"Jesse." It was said halfway between a resigned sigh and a welcome. Still, a small smile began to lift Walter's lips, brighten his eyes. Both witnesses in the room watched the two closely. Walter closed his eyes again, relaxing. "Jesse, I'm so pleased you've come to see me." There was a drained lilt in his voice along with the genuine gladness.

Jesse opened his mouth a moment, was unable to say any more. He bent forward to get closer to White. The guard stepped nearer, ready. Jesse continued his motion, slowly went down to his knees, his cheek brushing the end of the guard rail that secured White onto his bed. His mouth was close to Walter's ear, his breaths emotional heaves.

"I've come such a long way to get here, Mr. White, gone through so much to be here."

White kept staring forward, he knew what would happen next. It was the only reason for ever seeing Jesse again.

Jesse continued. "I've had a long time to think down there. Do you remember?"

Walter turned his head to the unexpected question. "Of course I remember, Jesse." Oh, yes, when he first saw Jesse and what they did to him - he was hunched over in his bonds, could not look Walter in his eyes, acted like a long-abused dog. Pinkman didn't know why White was there, they wouldn't let him kill Jesse, he couldn't rescue either of them, they didn't need White to cook. It was some sort of mistake, and Jesse was just there, as always, for someone's amusement.

"I wasn't sure what I would do here. I had to come and see." Pinkman moved his head slightly closer, his chin touching the edge of Walter's pillow, whispering, "I can still taste them."

Also unforeseen, tears came to Walter's eyes. "Oh, Jesse." He looked away from his young face, couldn't take seeing the scars at that moment, the scars he helped put there. He pressed his lips together, hesitant to speak, to make excuses. "I didn't mean for any of that. I didn't know, didn't think…"

"Didn't care." It was a flat statement from Pinkman.

"NO, I do!" The guard looked closer at them at the raised words. The hushed exchange had been so low even he, standing close, could not distinctly hear the words.

White looked up at the security guard, addressed him. "It's okay, officer, we just have so much to say to each other. I've known him a long time. Please, don't be alarmed." David looked at the two, hesitantly moved over to the corner the nurse sat at. She was also watching intently, but both could see how private the conversation was, their only conversation.

"Are you lying, Mr. White?" Jesse asked in an almost sing-song whisper.

"I was so despondent, and horrified, and … maddened with everything that happened. Hank had just died. I was at the point then," in a lower voice, "like you are, now." He paused a moment. "I have no more reason to lie, Jesse. I can't hide anymore."

"You've said that before." Jesse pulled back, but continued, looking carefully into his face. "You blamed me for everything going wrong, Mr. White."

Walter opened his mouth, a slight chill coming over him, but no words of denial forthcoming.

"Like I said, I had plenty of time to think." Jesse's voice was cracking, he began to cough, turned his face into his shoulder as he did so. He was forcing words through his emotions, the task overwhelming him, could not speak anymore. He took a long, trembling breath, slowly lowered his chin back onto the thin mattress, closed his eyes. Walter reached up with his right arm, loosely cradling Jesse's head, put a comforting hand along his neck, stroked his hair softly. Looking upwards, Walter brushed his cheek against Jesse's temple. The nurse had quietly gotten up, and was handing White a small, paper cup of water. She returned to her place. Walter held the cup so Jesse could drink.

Lips still wet, Jesse whispered, "You were right, Mr. White."

"No, Jesse," Walter pressed down on his lips. "I was not right. I was never right."

"Fring would have happily let you go if you hadn't killed his men for me, hadn't caused trouble, continued to cause trouble for me. You would have had your money back then, more than enough, than you wanted, you would have been satisfied, and nothing else would have happened. Do you remember, Mr. White? It was still near the beginning. When they shot Christian, my friend? If you had just let it end, let me end, so long ago, you would be free now. There were other times as well."

"Jesse, none of that matters."

"It does, Mr. White. We all have to pay for our mistakes."

"Jesse." Walter turned his head to see Pinkman again. Jesse's eyes were open, but he was so, so weary. "Jesse, please."

"You know, Mr. White, I picked these handcuffs ten minutes ago."


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11

If the days are numbered,

then let me fly now,

a longing for cooling music over water,

days never spent

if I wait, caged,

too long,

for you. -Skyler White

...

Jesse began to choke, his breaths coming in hitches.

"Jesse, what did you do?" White's arm went around his back, pulling him closer against the bed.

"I took Oxy, so it wouldn't hurt so much."

_Oxy? Oxycodone?_ Walter thought. _They had that all over the critical ward, for cancer and other terminal patients. It had a delayed effect. Or did they addict him to the "hillbilly heroin" when he was in their compound, to keep him passive?_

"How much oxycodone did you take, Jesse? Answer me, was it a whole bottle? Was it the stuff in this ward?" Walter shook him slightly. "And,… so, what wouldn't hurt so much?"

Jesse tried to answer him, but the questions floated in a mind already so crowded with memories, with heavy, conflicted thoughts, he didn't feel he could even raise his head to speak. He had to get up, though, he had to do it.

_I just have to stand up, that's all, and show them, and this will end. Do it, do it now. Do it before you can't._

He tried to move back, to get up from his knees, but felt a slow, increased pressure on him. The pressure became a vice. White's reassuring arms were now crushing him, pinning his arms behind him, in what looked like an embrace.

He whispered into his ear, "Jesse, don't. Whatever you are thinking, don't do it."

He froze at those words. That was what he said to Gus Fring, and Heisenberg killed him.

Coherent thought fading, he managed to blurt out, but only in gasps loud enough so White could understand, "I have to do the opposite of whatever Heisenberg says!"

"Just don't move, Jesse, don't do anything. Just listen to me a little longer. One… more… minute." White didn't know if he had the strength to hold him that long.

Pinkman was shedding tears beneath his fading, but fierce will. "I thought you wanted it to end? Don't you want peace?"

"Yes, but not along with you. I've always been a coward. Not this time. I need you, Jesse."

_NO! Heisenberg always said that._

Jesse tried again to stand up. That would be all he would have to do, stand up, freed, and lunge toward White's windpipe with the sharp-toothed, inner saw blades of the unlocked handcuffs. The doubled, heavy steel cuffs would act like a toothed, "brass knuckles" punch in his fists, and there would be enough alarming blood from White's weakened, thinned neck. The security guard would shout, the policeman right outside the door would plunge in, they would both start firing. He and White would be caught in the crossfire. The men wouldn't even think twice once a shot was fired, especially if one shooter was a two bit security guard not instructed in such situations. Their instincts and the policeman's training would assume Jesse had a deadly, glinting weapon in his hands. Yes, they would panic and empty their revolvers, the bullets finding a path in both bodies, and Heisenberg would be dead.

"No, Jesse, stop, don't do this. Don't think this will atone for anything. Just put the cuffs back on and… and walk out the door. That's all you have to do. Walk out the door."

"I don't have anywhere to go! Don't you understand what you did to me?"

"Go to Skyler, Jesse. That's what I need you to do. You can help each other. She needs to know things, details no one else can or will tell her. Do this for her sake, not mine. Atone that way, and for me."

Jesse's struggles lessened. "But you'll tell her… tell everyone yourself?"

"I'll make bargains. I'll make sure they leave you and Skyler alone. I promise you that. They don't need either of you now. But for those bargains, no one in the public will ever see me again. There won't be a trial. Skyler will be told nothing." He paused, his death grip now turning into an embrace. "Skyler needs to know everything, you both need peace, neither of us can give up today. I never wanted you to give up." He took a deep breath, "Forgive me for needing you more than ever. Like you said, I'll pay for everything I did."

That smart voice began laughing in Jesse's mind, scolding. _ You can't actually believe Heisenberg? That is your weakness, believing. That is what caused - everything. Do you want even more blood on your hands, Jesse? Or will you pay?_ Yes. He made his decision.

White clawed over Jesse's back, slammed the ends of the cuffs together himself, tightly. They cut deeply into his wrists, drawing blood, crushing tendon. He cried out at the sudden, paralyzing agony. White violently pushed him back, snarling. His fall crashed through the room's swinging door, landed him at the startled policeman's feet.

Heisenberg bellowed, "Get that ugly, shit-crazy, meth head out of here. Traitor! Shoot him, shoot him if he ever tries to get near me again."


	12. Chapter 12

Part 12

Quinton relaxed his lanky frame against a hydrant and looked in the drains for cigarettes, ones that were not overly wet or pissed on. He saw a nice, only partly flattened, half smoked one and put it to his lips. The teeth cradling the soothing smoke were rotting, black in parts, brown where the core nubs showed through. His clothes were sticking to smudges on his body, flakes of skin fell away at the slightest scratch. He didn't remember when he last had a bath. The hands which occasionally spasmed when taking his puffs were old men's hands, thin, wrinkled, age spotted, shaky, and ready for the calming comforts of the grave. Quinton was 26. He had been on the streets since his sophomore year in high school. He thought that was the term they used. He floated his days in and out of school, on a cloud of whatever he could get, escaping what passing counselors referenced to as a "home life." Quinton was not overly, sexually abused, not according to the other stories he had heard over his worn-out years. He was once an attractive child, sandy brown hair, sharp, blue eyes, pouty, full lips, slender hips. He was an adequate substitute for when his mother was out late-nights, waitressing. The economics of the family could not afford his dad many whores. At least in that his father contributed to their household wealth, or he was just plain cheap. His beer certainly was.

Quinton's rheumy eyes roved up and down the streets, hoping for a familiar face and a score. Instead, an unfamiliar car pulled up in the gathering, New Mexico evening. It was black, shiny, full of promise, though it was rather early for such interest to begin. Still, it was never a bad thing to have more pocket change. He would have to be careful with what he already had, but the gray haired, paunchy, saggy-faced driver didn't look like he was after his money.

"Hey, kid, you need some help?" It was such a seemingly well meaning, familiar line to Quinton. The well known chill started in his stomach, but he casually walked over to the expensive, gleaming car nonetheless.

"Hey, pops," he said nonchalantly to the unknown face, beginning one fantasy, "how's things?"

"How're things with you?" The old man looked him up and down, noted the sunken eyes, the dark patches of skin, the dirty hair. "You look awful skinny, would you like something to eat - first?"

"Well, it's about the right time, I guess. You asking me out to dinner, Sir?"

"You do need a good meal, and a bit of a shower. How about a few treats for a change, huh?" These conversations always sounded like code to Quinton. Sometimes he felt as if a whole menu of favors could be conveyed in just a few, seemingly charitable sentences. His world weary mind didn't function that way, he wished they would just say what they wanted from him.

A small smile began to play around the richer man's mouth. It didn't quite reach his eyes, yet.

"Well, it's your dollar," said the younger man, "but you always like to take care of your… treats first?"

The driver's smile widened, his gestures expansive. "It looks like you need it. Besides, I have some bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Would you be extra thankful to me later?"

"I'll be whatever you like later for the right cash, although it would be nice to be taken care of once in a long while."

"Okay, get on in then. Please sit in the plastic I spread across the seats for now. That's just until you get a little more cleaned up. I even brought some clothes I'll let you have if you'd be grateful for them."

"Sure, clothes, whatever," Quinton mumbled.

The older man frowned at him.

"I mean, yes, Sir, thank you very much. I'm sorry for the disrespect earlier."

"You have very nice eyes, son. I'm sorry you're so skinny. Maybe a decent meal will help." The driver reached over and pulled up the lock, pulled the inside handle. The door smoothly yawned open like a well used, well oiled trap. The boy got in, minding the spread, black plastic as instructed.

"Wow, you sure are unkempt," the driver pursed his lips at him.

"So, clean me up, pops," Quinton smiled back. He threw the filter of his well smoked cigarette out the door before closing it. "There's a late night place right down a few blocks. They're cool. They let me eat for free sometimes, but they know what's real. They don't cause trouble for me."

"Hmm, yes, this could be the start of a nice little friendship. We'll have to see." The older man reached over and gave Quinton's shoulder a quick massage, then seemed to regret it. "Yes, a bath soon. I think I even brought a few things for that."

…

In the dark, cold motel near the eatery, Quinton began choking up blood. The old man didn't know what to do, but hurriedly took off the manacles and began wiping them down. He stood back as the young man continued vomiting up food and blood onto the bedsheets.

"Shit, kid, hey!" was all the useless man could think of saying.

Quinton started convulsing, his beautiful eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing in gasps, a short trail of blue liquid leaking from his nostrils.

"Dammit, I didn't hurt him that much." The man watched as the boy shuddered a few more times, did not help him, did not even try to say a few comforting words. Even before the young man was still, he began gathering all the things he had brought, carefully checked the bathroom for more items, packed everything, and quickly headed out the room, making sure to lock up and put the whole, bad deal behind him.

…

Jesse didn't respond when the police officer tried to move him and get him to his feet. He shook him a few times, noticed a blue tinge to his lips, and then wisely shouted for the nurse.

"Rose! He's stopped breathing!" The diligent nurse swiftly grabbed a manual oxygen pump from a drawer and a stethoscope from the wall of the room. She knelt over Pinkman, looked into his mouth, saw that it was clear, and began pumping the oxygen mask quickly to see if this would restart his inhalations again. She put the stethoscope to his chest as she directed the policeman to continue pumping the mask.

"His heart's skipping, but I can hear it. She pulled open his eyelids. They were dilated even with the bright fluorescents above. She looked at his face carefully, put her hand over his chest. "There's some really shallow breathes, irregular."

The policeman looked around, saw the arriving night shift nurse and gestured to her to take over the pump. He stood up. "What should we do, Rosey, admit him?"

She chuffed. "Here? I don't think he has much… resources, do you?"

The cop frowned. "You have to take him, Rosey. You know that's the law."

"'Have to' is a funny idea, Malcolm. I have no problem with it, but you know all that will happen is that he'll lie in a gurney somewhere outside emergency admittance, forever, and once in a while someone will feel his pulse to see if he's still among us."

"What do you mean? He's barely breathing and his heart beat is jumping all over the place."

"Yeah, and he's_ just_ an addict and he's _just_ 'passed out.' You see people practically walking over this all the time in the streets. By the way, get those _God Damn_ handcuffs off of him. See, that's your thinking, too. He ain't gonna be much danger, and you can move him some, gentle."

The officer bent over and pushed Jesse slowly to his side. "Geez, his hands are bloody, Rose. I think he fell on the cuffs. They look bad, and they're in deep. I don't know if I can get them off without hurting him more."

Rose got up hastily to look. There was a blood pool forming under Jesse's black and blue mottled hands. She couldn't tell if an artery was punctured. The nurse made some quick calculations in her head. "Well, we're going to have to take them off, no matter what. I'll wrap some tight bandages on them, but if it starts spurting, it's beyond me and we're all in trouble."

"Don't we have to get a doctor to see him, Rose?" the officer asked.

"What, a doctor, here? Now? And for him?" The nurse sighed. "Would you bother, Malcolm? You work the fast side of human ordeal, policeman, I don't always. Where's that key?"

The policeman fumbled at his keys, nervous over all that had happened tonight. He was angry at himself for his edginess, but this boy really hadn't done anything and didn't deserve all this, and he was responsible. He didn't judge the kid right. He was also sure that most of the little bones in Jesse's hands and wrists were broken, broken in that crushing fall, and the sharp bone ends were severing nerves. They always told him back at the academy that handcuffs were dangerous things - torturous, steel devices that had no give if something went wrong.

"Okay, Rosey, you ready with your stuff?" Rosey nodded her head. She had a suture kit open along with advanced butterfly bandages that could hold torn soft tissue together even when the edges were under severe pressure.

The policeman unlocked the handcuffs and pried them from the red, wet flesh. They made a horrible, sodden, meat sound as he took them out. Blood poured from the deep, indented wounds.

"Shit!" The policeman swiftly stepped back so Rosey could try to stop the torrent of blood. She put as much pressure as she could on the front of Jesse's wrists, the cotton gauze quickly filled red and began to drip.

"I need more!" The night shift nurse handed her more gauze that she layered over the soaked mess. She taped up the padding tightly. Blood escaped between the edging.

"We have to take him down to emergency, Rosey. He's going to bleed to death."

The nurse was breathless. "Okay, here, help me lift him."

"I'll help, Rosey." David, the security guard, took over for her and helped the officer gently, but swiftly, lift Jesse onto a hallway gurney. He seemed to be breathing more steadily now, but she nodded to the night shift nurse and took over the oxygen. They rushed the gurney to the elevator and headed for the emergency department where a newly staffed doctor in training might be available. The security guard and the night shift nurse watched as the elevator doors closed. They looked at each other, concerned for all of them.

The night shift nurse, frayed by the events at the beginning of her shift, went slowly into Walter White's room. He was no longer in his bed.


	13. Chapter 13

Part 13

The police investigator wiped Blue Death from the nostrils of his third, dead male prostitute case this week. Several police officers roamed carefully around the premises, keeping the curious motel guests at bay. His partner was questioning the sleepy manager below. They already knew it was an acrid stench seeping under the flimsy motel room door that first alerted the cleaning woman that something bad had happened behind it, that it would be a mess inside and a bad morning for her. She was used to drunken parties and vomit and stains in all sorts of areas in that establishment, so she did not hesitate much before turning the lock. Little did she know that she would be staring into the face of a once beautiful young man, deep blue eyes the color of secret, turbulent oceans, pale, silken skin with delicate highlights of rosy red, a slender, marked frame now draped over the foot of the bed. His head was turned to her, long, brown hair falling over one eye that still seemed to have a question in them. _Was this always the way it would end?_

An old fashioned radiator clanked in the corner of the room, complaining at the disturbance, dispensing no heat. The detective's breath floated in front of him in that cold space as he bent over the body. He put the sample in a clear bag, then checked the corners of the boy's eyes. The telltale signs were there - tiny, sky blue blood vessels, like webbing, near his tear ducts. He wiped at the moisture still remaining in his eyes - sky blue came off on his cloth. Blue Death had turned into such an apt name.

He didn't know who brought the drug. Maybe the junkie still had some left. Maybe the John made promises and street corner deals before the play. He could tell the client did not participate in the partaking, these older men, the overwhelming majority, very rarely did. It was just blue candy to lure the starving children.

He wasn't sure why it was heavily meth-addicted, male prostitutes that were dying from this plague of Heisenberg's formula. Maybe the stress of the games they played with their clients pushed them over some physical edge in their systems. Maybe because they were in such bad health to begin with and more vulnerable than the general populace. Maybe it was some reaction specific to males.

He looked at the emaciated boy-man on the bed before him. It's true he had been investigating the scene for the last hour, noting the position of the body on the bed, the bruising on wrists, legs, back, and face. He had picked through the vomit of the kid's last meal. They all looked for any evidence left by the John. Now he just wanted to step back and take an overall picture in his head. He tried to imagine how it felt being that kid, left purely on his own in that desperate, dirty, selfish, lethal world of addiction for decades. The despair he felt of never having anyone. The subconscious need for any connection, even a deadly connection, with another human being. The constant drive for another, escapist high.

There was $348 dollars in the bedside table drawer. $348 would buy a nice weekend of meth fueled, manic happiness. $348 would nicely buy an addict's body for a couple of hours. $348 was, in the end, all this youth was worth.

Teeth and frame notwithstanding, he looked like that guy they wanted to question many months ago. A grainy picture of him was passed around the office for a short time. There was some big hullabaloo about someone throwing thousands of dollars out a car window in some piss poor neighborhood. That lucky junkie probably found some secret, laundered stash, got Really high, and then decided to share. He disappeared, traceless. Everyone knew when that happened in the bigger, cartel world, and the cartels would be the ones with bags and bags of money, they don't even find the bodies after all was said and done. They just got mad at that kid, and *poof* gone. No fanfare, no one to miss him. Even his parents were surprised when the DEA came around once asking about him. The family didn't know where he was, they never expected to know again. They did ask about his empty house, though. The dead prostitute on the bed looked so much like… what was his name? Jesse? Jesse Pinkman? He remembered it was some color.

He looked at the cold remains in the cold room again. The boy just wanted some human warmth, didn't he?

Maybe these kids died because that is what you do in that toxic world. And no one cares or expects differently.

And maybe… maybe, there is just something horribly wrong with Blue Sky.

…

"They say if you fall in your dreams and you hit bottom, you never wake up." -Marie Schrader

The pit. (Darkness).

Jesse's hands were hurting him so much, but he couldn't turn and get them out from under him. He couldn't seem to move at all, and his chest throbbed with every, pulsing breath.

_It's the manacles, they're caught and my hands have swollen._ He tried to open his eyes even though he knew, with the tarp spread overhead, he could see very little, just a few slivers of light against the cement walls.

His eyelids wouldn't budge. How could he not move them, it was such an easy thing, an unthinking thing? He couldn't even see the translucent, half-dark, red shades of eyelids closed but merely resting, pupils still alert underneath. He was in complete, unrelenting night, and began to panic.

_What's wrong with me? Am I paralyzed? Am I… dying?_

He tried to move just a little bit, just to kick a leg or push slightly onto his side, some relief from the growing ache everywhere in his body. He couldn't seem to feel anything solid, though, a floor, a wall, the scrape of rough concrete against his face. Only the pain grew, and he could feel nothing through it.

Nothing.

His breath quickened in his terror.

_What happened? I can't remember what happened to me._

He heard some scratching noise near him. Something was moving around over his head.

_It's Todd, he's come down_. He tried to move his lips. _Todd. Even Todd. Please, help me_. He called his name, but managed no sound except his own, panicked panting. _Just move me, Todd, get these things off me. Notice something awful has happened. Please._

He felt fingertips gently moving the hair back from his temple. He still couldn't open his eyes at the touch. A cool cloth quietly swabbed his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes. Something small was put to his dry lips, soothing them. Every breath past them still bled.

_Please, Todd, take these manacles off me. Please. _The pain in his hands became unendurable. _Please, I'll do whatever you want. Just take them off for a while._

He felt the cool cloth at his eyes again. Someone seemed to be saying something, but he couldn't understand the words.

_"Anything?"_ repeated the voice in his restless, confused mind.

_Anything. Just make my hands stop hurting, make me be able to see again. Bring me back_.

Now in a nightmare, his mind mixing reality with, at least, a solid memory he could grasp, Jesse opened his eyes to Todd looking down at him, expressionlessly.

_You said, anything._

"I want you to be Lydia. Would Lydia like this?" Todd bent over him again, forcing his lips painfully onto his own. After a minute, he let up. "That's right, isn't it?"

Jesse tried to move back, dig himself into the concrete to escape if he could, but there was nothing he could do to stop this.

He felt the chain of his manacles dig into the small of his back. He couldn't move his arms, even though there should have been plenty of give. He and the cell had been cleaned out, scrubbed, refreshed, and his captor, watching him like a prey animal, was awaiting his reward. His entire body hurt, though he couldn't remember what had happened to cause that.

_Tarantula in a jar_. This was another of Todd's experiments. Every day some part of Pinkman was being taken away. He stared up at the sky through the metal grate.

"Hey, answer me." Todd soundly struck Jesse across the face. The thin, grimy mattress below him did nothing to lessen the shock. "I want you to tell me what she would like."

"I don't know, Todd," he said softly, he didn't want to be hit again. "I'm not her."

"No, you know." Todd looked at him, frowning, disappointed. "I had other girls before, but they didn't like it, and I couldn't ask them why after."

Todd bent down again, and actually started chewing on Jesse's bottom lip. Jesse felt the pop as tender skin broke under the assault, tasted the spurts of blood. Then Todd moved on to his chin, and down the front of his neck. It felt like saw blades were cutting into him and he tried to pull away, but Todd trapped the sides of his head with his hands to quell his protests. Jesse tried to think of something, anything, to end it.

"Lydia wouldn't like this, Todd. Please… stop."

Todd sat back on his heels, looked at Jesse like he was deliberately being difficult. "Well, what would she like? Show me."

_Show him?_ Jesse's thoughts retched at the idea of having to touch Alquist again, unless it was to throw these manacles around his throat and hear his bones crack as he strangled him.

Todd poised his lips a fraction above Jesse's. Jesse could feel his breath against his mouth, slow, rhythmic, without passion. Todd could just not feel what his victims felt. He could never understand the terror, revulsion, and anger coursing through the body beneath him. Pain to Todd was just a way to get someone to do a thing, an equation. He vigilantly watched what people were supposed to say and do, and imitated it the best he could. He was an uneasy automation in a puzzling world. An observer would have to say his greatest pleasure, or whatever emotion that came closest to that, was when the magical equations worked out to his plans.

"Go ahead," Todd calmly demanded, waiting. Anyone could tell he wouldn't wait for long.

Jesse lifted his head slightly the small distance to Alquist's mouth. He tried not to gag as he tasted his own drying blood on Todd's lips. He forced himself to gently kiss him, to imagine his past when he still had love, had family, had even cynical hope, to imagine a thing that was so very far away.


	14. Chapter 14

The pit. (Waiting.)

Jesse was in so much pain, he couldn't breathe.

_Why didn't you just kill me yourself, you fucking coward. You're the one who thinks 5 moves ahead of everyone else. You wanted this. You knew._

After the shootout in the desert, he was dragged from under the car at To'hajiilee, all because he met Heisenberg's eyes. He had wanted White to see him, to know he was a witness to Hank's death and would vouch for him to the coming DEA agents. All he had to do was hide a little longer. Others had to come. They had to.

Jesse looked out from the oversized wheel so White could see him. He wanted him to know he was there with him. He wanted him to know he was sorry.

"Pinkman," Heisenberg sneered. _He survived, not Hank. Always Pinkman_. It took all of 2 seconds for him to decide. _Not this time._

"You find him, I'll kill him," uncle Jack said.

"Found him," Heisenberg almost snickered. _There_.

So they dragged him out, screaming betrayal. Wasn't there blood enough for Heisenberg? Jesse just wanted to stop him. Heisenberg always wanted so very much more.

_Jane was like you, Pinkman, throw away people. You do it to yourselves. How long would it have been before you overdosed each other anyway? You should know what I thought of her before you died. "Never trust an addict," Fring had said. Your unthinking, Jesse, ruins everything. You kill everything you touch._

_Then why didn't you just put a fucking bullet in my head yourself? _thought Jesse_. Too hard? Too easy? That, I do blame you for._

He tried to shift slightly, to take some pressure off his back. Todd had left him like that on the cement floor, though he begged him, writhing, to at least put him onto his side, or rest him against a cool, cell wall. Just not on the dying skin of his back. Alquist intentionally decided to use the metal belt that had Jesse's hands cuffed awkwardly to his sides so he couldn't turn. He also restrained his legs with a 2 foot, solid, metal rod. Any other position Jesse took would either cut off the circulation in his arms and shoulders or suffocate him on his chest. He just tried to keep breathing, to keep one breath going after another, to try not to think about pain and time.

Another 400 breaths passed.

_I can't do this anymore_. His gasps trembled, but didn't, as he hoped, stop.

"I c-can't, fucking, do this anymore!" he screamed into the uncaring silence around him.

He had dared asked Alquist, the knife edge still in him, what happened to the girl he did this to. "Oh, she wasn't that strong, not like you. She left before I really got to this part. She's out there in the desert, I forget where."

Jesse felt the slick pool of blood he was lying in on his skin, the movement of the flayed flesh of his back as he inhaled.

_Just another 700 breaths, then I can stop_. He felt pain in his ribs, raw nerve endings rubbing against rough concrete, oiled by his own drying and renewing blood. He wanted to vomit up the contents of an empty stomach.

_Did you really want this, Heisenberg? Is this more than you hoped for, for me? Did you always plan to throw me away?_

Or would Heisenberg recognize his precious formula still being produced? Would he come back to stop it? How long would it be before he came back to finish it.

He began his endless count again.

…

It was early morning. The sun was beginning its bright rise and Skyler Lambert, not sleeping the night before, envied its enthusiasm. She sat in her small kitchen, cigarette in hand, waiting for whatever nonsense would come today. Flynn used to scold her for the increased smoky smell in the dingy rental, but lately, he wouldn't care if the whole place just burned down. The day before, Mrs. Corbett agreed to take him in for a few days, to escape all the roaming reporters, all the attention. She asked if they would all like to come for a little while, but Skyler thought it would be better if the reporters only knew about her house, not all of Flynn's friend's homes. She agreed, with a relieved look.

There was a soft knock on the door. Skyler hoped it wasn't Mrs. Corbett and that there was some sort of trouble. She would call first, wouldn't she? _Unless she couldn't_. She got up, anxious, opened the double chained door, actually hoping for a reporter this time.

Marie was standing there. The sun backlit her hair into a red fury and her expression matched the artistry. "Is Flynn around?" she asked in barely contained anger.

"Marie, what are you doing…"

"I _said_, is Flynn around?"

Skyler didn't know what to say. She didn't like having her sister here in such a state with no one else around, except, worst of all, Holly.

"Flynn!" Marie began shouting, "Are you here? Answer me!"

"Shhh, you'll wake her." Skyler pulled her sister inside. "She doesn't need to be up this early." They both listened carefully, but there were no cries from her room.

"I need to talk to you. I wish you were both here, because we all need to discuss That Man."

Skyler didn't like how Marie was already not making sense. She looked like she hadn't slept either. No real conversation could come out of such a situation.

"What is there to discuss? They have him, there's not much more we can do."

"Not much more we can do? What are you talking about?" Marie glared at her older sister. "What are you going to tell them when they start asking you questions, Skyler?"

"I don't think they are going to ask me anything, Marie. They're going to ask him everything, ya think?" Skyler was getting angry at the attitude Marie was developing. Developing? She had it her whole life. Whether it was because she never had any children of her own, or she was lonely in her life as an overtiming cop's wife, she seemed to always think she owned the people around her, and that her opinions could straighten out any problems that they had.

Walter always came home to her at 5:30 pm, every day, sometimes even earlier. There might be a small stack of student papers to grade, something he would glance over while giving her almost full attention when she talked about her jobs, little stories he would tell back about some prank the students pulled on him. Some of those pranks could be dangerous, given that it Was a chemistry class. She remembered one story where the students filled up a bunch of balloons using a methane tank, they were going to use them during a half time cheerleading show. The green and white balloons floated out and filled part of the football field. They were tied together in sort of a caterpillar shape with little, googly eyes and antennas in the front. When the cheerleaders were finished with their rousing cheers, they pointed their pom poms to the mascot and out ran a quarterback with a flaming torch. Fortunately, one of Walter's smarter students, a bit of a skinny, bespectacled nerd who smelled the additived methane leaking through his balloon, tackled the muscled, popular quarterback to the laughter and appreciation of the crowd. A great part of the show, they thought. The torch flamed out on the wet grass, and after the story was explained, the nerd became the better, more popular hero for the rest of the season. The coach even gave him an oversized uniform, padding included.

She remembered when Walt praised students who worked hard in his class, including the famous nerd, made an effort to redo experiments after school or go over extra assignments to make sure they got a concept. Walter was proud when an addling student started pulling himself up in his grades, and he was glad to give them extra counseling and time and answer any questions they had. He loved teaching and used to be a humble man, happy when even little things turned up for them. He was thankful for the money the car wash gave them, as humiliating as serving some of his own students was to him. Yes, he wanted more, but if the cancer never happened, they would have had a content life.

"Are you listening to me?" Marie was back in her face. "They are going to want your corroboration on his stories. They don't believe anything he says, and why should they? So you are still very important to them. They're going to come to you. And what if he dies? It'll be a bigger mess than ever."

"I don't know anything, Marie. What do I know?"

"You've become as big a liar as he is. I don't know what you know, but it's not everything you say."

"The only active thing I did was to try to hide the money. There was so much of it, that I saw. I don't know what he did with it or where it went."

_The ticket._

Skyler took in a quick breath, and Marie narrowed her eyes at her.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

No, that ticket was her, Flynn's, and Holly's only bargaining chip and possible escape from this trap. She could not let her sister know about it now. She'd run to the DEA to exhume the bodies, and that would be the end of any normal life possible for them. She had to keep it secret from her. She had to see how all this would play out. She was as selfish and cruel as Heisenberg.

_He turns everyone he touches into him_.

"I w-was just thinking of that compound they found him in. All those bloody bodies, and the money. That's where it went."

"You still care about the money, Skyler?" Marie spat.

Skyler took her sister by the shoulders, spun her around, made her look at the place she was standing.

"Look at it, Marie. Look at how my children are living. They froze all my assets. They're only now allowing me some of the money I'm earning. I'm so behind in everything. It's only because of some of the kindness of Flynn's friends, the school, some donations, that I even have a few furnishings to sit on and they have some used beds. The happy pictures on the walls haunt me, I should take them down. I have nothing. You still have sympathy and help from all of Hank's department, his pension, the big house…"

Skyler gasped, abruptly stopped. She was shocked that she had said so much.

Marie turned around, Skyler's hands still on her shoulders. "So, you really are quite the bookkeeper, sis. It really was about finance."

"No, Marie," she dropped her head and shook it, blond hair falling over her shut eyes, still not believing she said those things. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Marie couldn't hold back tears, despite her extreme anger, or maybe because of it. "I would give all that up to have Hank back. Can you get me Hank back, sis? I'll give you everything I have, and more, anything you want, if you could."

Skyler almost blurted out her secret then, but pressed down on her lips. _Not yet, just not yet_. She pulled her sister to her, wrapped her arms protectively around her, betraying her. "I'm s-so sorry, Marie. I'm so sorry."


	15. Chapter 15

Part 15

Todd was having a pretty fine day. He was wandering around the compound doing little odd jobs, sweeping the clubhouse floor, wiping down the pool table, oiling door hinge squeaks, and daydreaming about Lydia. They'd been meeting and talking more and more lately, and it made him happy when her special ring tone went off on his phone. She was so pleased with the way things were coming along, the batches were extremely blue, and her elite clients said the latest shipments were "so tasty."

Lydia was just so different from anyone he'd ever been with, or grown up with for that matter. She seemed so delicate, yet could be so in charge and demanding in that cute, exacting way of hers. She was smart too. She talked to him softly, sometimes like a teacher schooling her student, but she never really raised her voice even when something he did or said disappointed her. Her hair was shiny, glossy, straight and dark - his palms itched when he thought of how it must feel. She always looked and smelled so nice, her clothes fit her well, never too snug or low cut or slutty, unlike what the other guys brought around, or those old, torn pictures uncle Jack showed him of his mom and her friends. She even wore fancy shoes with high heels when walking around the desert. He guessed business time was business time to her, no matter who or what she had to walk over out there. She just seemed to float above everything dirty around her, so untouchable. He really wanted to capture her drifting attention and impress her.

He remembered she had a kid, but kids are so easy to deal with.

Humming, Todd rinsed out the big, plastic, blue bucket and refilled it with very hot water. He took a scouring brush and bar soap from a shelf, wrapped them in a few, clean rags that he took down from a line above the sink.

Outside, he counted out $950 from the stash under the pile of tires near the car parts shed. He was planning what he would need from the hardware store tomorrow. He had his eye on the fancy bolt cutters with diamond encrusted blades that could cut through a 3 inch round bar of steel. That was much denser, though not as wide, as a human wrist. That reminded him that he also needed some longer, stainless steel, Fernco clamps, about 5 of them, the 300 series. There was also an assortment of long nails, a clear, welder's mask, two new acetylene torches, and a heavier, full rubberized apron. Hmm, he was forgetting a few things. Sometimes he had memory problems. He would find himself outside somewhere or in the middle of some task he didn't remember starting, but these little things really didn't matter. Uncle Jack never scolded him when he found him at his projects. He often praised him for what looked like really industrial work. Just as long as he got rid of everything the right way, like Jack showed him, when he was finished, everything would be just fine.

Todd wasn't worried. He was sure he would get what he needed once he was leisurely browsing through the hardware store. He really loved that store and all the fun things it provided him.

He took the warm bucket over to the grate, quietly pulled open the entrance. He wasn't really worried about locking it now, and even the ladder was still in place. He kept on humming as he went down the ladder with the bucket, a little water sloshing over its side, the sun still warm on his face. He walked over to Jesse and watched him awhile. He didn't seem to be aware of his presence.

Jesse's wrists and hands were cut, bruised, swollen and useless from constantly pulling on the manacles. It was instinctual, he didn't realize he was doing it. His ankles and feet were in the same condition. Even if Todd were to let him go now, he wouldn't have even made it to the ladder, let alone outside or in the desert. The blood pool beneath him had dried, in places it was almost entirely black. It reached out in an oval around his body, an 8-inch, weeping mandala in reds and burnt browns. It was one of Alquist's better works.

Todd unwrapped a rag and soaked it in the bucket. He held it over Jesse's face, let it drip onto his eyes and mouth until he realized a sensation beyond the torture of his opened back.

Agonizingly slowly, he opened his eyes. The sensation of light seemed another assault, and he closed them again, tightly, when he realized it was Alquist.

"Hey, pay attention," Todd nudged his arm with the tip of his work boot. The sticky ground made a sickening squelch sound under his shoe. "Alright, I had to let you know what would happen if you didn't do exactly what I… we told you to do," Todd said. "Now you know." He squeezed the rag so more water flowed into Jesse's mouth. He didn't try to swallow it, even though he wasn't given any water for almost two days.

"Well, no, you're going to have to try to swallow because I'm going to give you these." Alquist pulled out a clear, orange prescription bottle from his pocket and rattled the pills in front of Jesse. "It's…" Todd turned the bottle in his hand and read the label again, "It's Oxycodone, should help a lot, they give it to cancer patients during their last weeks. Says it's the fast acting kind." He opened the bottle and put three pills into Jesse's mouth, soaked the rag again and dripped in a mouthful of water. "Swallow those. You'll need three more."

Jesse tried to take in what he was given. His body was on the verge of rejecting any new sensation forced on it, almost threw up the small pills.

Todd realized he had gone too far, again. He removed the shackles around Jesse's ankles, the metal belt from around his waist. He could almost feel the thready heartbeat as it pulsed through his swollen hands. Jesse was trembling, whether from heat or cold he couldn't tell. He poured a little hot water onto his neck and chest, wiped his face and body gently with the rag.

"The medication will kick in soon, just hold on a little bit longer," the nurse said to him. Jesse felt a sting in his forearm, and then a numbing, cold wave flowing out from the point. The warm cloth wiped his throat and chest again. Another sting repeated in his other arm, euphoric relief embracing him again. He finally felt like he could sleep, dreamless, and escape.

…

Marie clutched the gun to her heart. It was heavy, and special, with an intricately patterned, burled wood handle polished monthly by her husband. He was enamored with weapons, as cops usually are, being a large element of their jobs as well as a protector of their, and others', lives. He liked to polish it while watching his myriad of sporting events, especially Nascar racing. She had often complained about the noise, how many times can someone listen to an engine go around a track forever? What was the excitement? How about those poor people who lived around the stadium, the constant noise, the shouting crowds, the endless litter of beer cans and plastic food containers? She imagined living around the stadium area to be a sort of war zone of noise and heat and bad manners. Why she wondered such things showed the level of her boredom on sports day, meaning, with their satellite hook up, almost every weekend, unless she could pry him, complaining, to do something, silly (to him), with her. She habitually felt the sports widow, and beer widow, and would sometimes wonder, when the house was so quiet and lonely, why they lived together in the first place.

When Hank couldn't walk, and that was such a worrying time, she had him all to herself, 24/7, and that might have been the worst part in all their marriage together. She thought they would grow closer during that ordeal, how could they not? She was caring for him, feeding him, slept in a little bed next to him, constantly watching that he was comfortable. He despised her during all that comforting. Here was this macho, action man, an important guard of the entire region no less, being reduced to the sympathies of a healthy, slight, doting woman, a woman who he picked on constantly when she didn't bring him the brand of snack food he wanted, couldn't sort his collection to his liking, or was just around too much. He started to hate her mooning face, the lovely one he fell so hard for those many years ago. Maybe, if she could have had children, it would have been different. He unfairly blamed her for that too. It was no wonder her compulsions grew during those days. This wasn't love, yet…

_I would do anything to have that hated time back_. She sat still, stopped her fiddling, wiped a few tears away with her free hand.

Hank had left the beautiful gun unloaded. He was a responsible man, and even though they had no children in the house, a stored, loaded weapon was just a snake waiting to strike at the worst possible circumstance. It took Marie over an hour to figure out how to load it. She eventually had to resort to the internet.

_Skyler would never have helped me with this. I don't know why I went to her_.

She stared at the thing. It seemed lovely to her now, too. The weight showed her it was of some quality, precisely machined, probably hard to miss with. She should have practiced with it when it was empty. She didn't want to fuss with reloading it again.

_Marie, this is a very bad idea. Don't do this_. Her husband's voice floated in her mind as she positioned the gun.

_Please, Marie, if you ever loved me, don't do this_.

She resettled herself on their bed, crouching over the pistol, staring down the barrel. It was just as scary as all those movies depicted.

_I'm sorry, my darling, I do love you. I'll love you always. You gave up your right to tell me what to do when you left me_.


End file.
